The beam was blinding at first, in this total darkness.. the creosote dust fell like the curtain of a closing act, settling on my hair, reminding me of the soft mist in a Queen Anne Autumn. A picture began to develop, a story of old... there are marks on the bricks, on their orange and charcoal backs, scratched, maybe with nails, leaving glowing orange Niles on this tomb, this fire chamber, the sacrificial hole, now exposed before my eyes.. Like a Goya, like Saturn devouring his children. Someone was burnt alive in this chimney, I could see the walls suddenly covered in blood, the vision of bodies, twisting and burning exploded in my head, as my hands scan every single inch of this grave, this chamber of death, this coffin of ashes and charcoal death.
I'm all curled up and my shoes were getting in the way. I remember when I bought them, about a month ago. Bostonians, as always, they have a "high ranking" mafioso luster to them, and they withstand time pretty well. I managed to take them off, I needed to feel the cold embers on my feet, the remains of this crime scene.. crime scene.. this is nothing of the sort. This is a bullring, an orgy of body parts, a slaughter, an oven.
The horror became a lump on my throat, so I stopped and prayed for the little pair of hand prints, roughly 10 inches from the bottom.. little finger traces in the downward motion of the tears of melting candles.
Suddenly a glimpse of light, right at the top.. almost like the end of the tunnel, except this one is vertical. One solid brick and mortar cell... I still can't breathe, in my hurried search for air I began to climb. I slept and fell a few times until I gathered enough resin on my hands and feet (sticky, with a burnt diesel smell) ... and with broken bleeding nails I made my way up, only to discover even clearer marks.. this fire, never put out by the tears of the surrogate mothers of the aborted children buried here, cremated and engraved, plastered on the walls as pain on a wrinkled letter, like words of sorrow in a howl and a deafening scream.
-I'm not alone? I thought, as I heard the door on the living room opening, I then saw the light under my feet. I heard footsteps walking across the creaky wooden floor. Heavy, as if carrying weight. I called out for help, but he doesn't respond to my call, I assumed he couldn't hear me.
I didn't want to climb down, as I had almost reached the top. I could breathe better now, and the light at the top was so bright it was partially blinding. I couldn't quit now.. I needed to know if someone had made it out alive. That's when I felt the logs being laid underneath me, and I suddenly smelled the gasoline, as it was being poured on them.
Fire was set ablaze and I knew I could make my way out before the flames grew bigge... Then I looked and there was the fairy again... looking down at me..before closing my escape with the chimney cap.. Thud! like a knockout punch on my eye, like the shower handle breaking while masturbating violently and falling in the tub, like a thorn hammered in my hand, like the first nail on a coffin, like a body falling from the 10th floor, like the chimney cap on this hellhole where I've been burnt alive...
I hope you'll tell my story, now that you've found the bloody brook and the map of a life forgotten in the walls of this red warehouse... the horns? they appeared after the third day, but I've gotten used to them by now.
What size of shoes do you wear anyway? those are some fine leather boots you're wearing...
